Ensam Tilsammans
by modengstrom
Summary: A look from Luna's POV at what she was going through after her mother's death and leading up to her introduction in Order of the Phoenix. Very outside the main plotline though not necessarily AU. Snape/Luna friendship. Oneshot.


**Set pre and mid OoTP. My first attempt at Harry Potter fanfiction written several years ago and finally being published! I feel as if the grammar (most pressingly the narrative tense) is a little off at times. I had no beta—so feel free to point out any changes that should be made! Thanks, Enjoy.**

I'll be honest. When I agreed to the medication, I was given no indication as to how long my treatment would last. Aside from the obligatory agreement, he kept telling me over and over that it would "depend on my progress." I surmise it would be difficult to measure such "progress" when I had only felt like myself a handful over times over the last few years, but I am no potions master.

I suppose progress could be measured by an external performance-- my grades had steadily improved and my attention span, though noticeably stagnant in length had sharpened in efficiency while it was active. The looks I got from my classmates had softened, their eyebrows no longer furrowed but either set back or averted all together. The reason I bring it up is that even though I was still three years off of graduation, I suddenly knew I was ready to stop. I'd wanted to decline the treatment before, but at the last minute would submit again. This acquiescence deserves some explanation.

My treatment began two years ago, three years after my mother's death. The shock of it was nearly non-substantial and I always knew what everyone meant when they looked at me with sorry eyes and called it an "accident." (Nine isn't too young to understand suicide). I won't attempt to relay the depth of my sorrow, as one could imagine it affected me considerably. After several years I was failing to show any signs of an improving or remotely stable mental state. Self-mutilation was a frequent occurrence beginning only one year after her death. I was neglecting my schoolwork and any general awareness of reality most of the time. Dumbledore suggested the therapy sessions to my father but being the free spirit he is, he refused them saying I needed to "be what I was" and "allowed to grieve naturally." I suppose there were arguments as to whether bloody limbs and bruised knuckles were a natural part of the grief process.

Eventually of course I pushed myself too far and wound up in the hospital wing. Dumbledore explained that Hogwarts could no longer play ignorant to my psychological needs. As long as I was attending the school I would be required to undergo counseling. I was in and out of consciousness but do recall deciding that leaving Hogwarts would be the best elective. It wasn't that I was particularly defiant, but my failing grades, lack of personal relationships, and the counseling against my father's wishes led me to that conclusion. There was nothing binding me to Hogwarts and I had never really connected to Dumbledore as many other students seemed to. Spilling my inner-most thoughts to him or Madam Pomfrey felt impossible.

Now, I will reiterate at the point I am about to allude to my memory is still hazy but the next time I came to I was startled to see Professor Snape seated at my bedside. He was looking over some some papers and it took him a few moments to recognize that I had stirred. He sensed my confusion and spoke.

"Miss Lovegood...I believe Dumbledore made you aware of the conditions of your continued enrollment at Hogwarts. He has requested that I personally work with you for a duration of no less than six months. If this is to come to passing absent of your father's regard you must sign these pledge papers to assure us that you are willing to submit to these sessions."

I recall, despite the weak state I was in, being quite agitated that my headmaster would choose to ambush me while I was recovering and worked up the strength to shrewdly respond.

"I have actually...already decided that at present it would be best for me to leave Hogwarts and commit to spending the next few years at home."

I will attempt to transcribe the next passage to the keenest of my recollection, though I still sometimes think I imagined the intensity with which his eyes sank back into his skull and every muscle in his face eased to a degree I didn't previously think possible in his anatomy. As if his fleeting severity hadn't been enough, I felt my stomach drop when he reached a hand up and placed it down on mine.

"Luna." Hallucination, surely.

"If your mother had surrendered..." He paused. "...allowed herself to get help, I strongly believe that she would still be here and the wizarding world would have benefited from her extraordinary capabilities. You are just like her. Please do not concede yourself to become a senseless waste of life when you have the capacity to be saved and to better your existence from here on out."

Something between the infliction of his voice and the feeling like I was the only person in the world he'd ever spoken to in that way had me signing the release papers without hesitation.

The anti-depression potions began immediately and it became clear that "counseling" was more of a scientific experiment than an assessment of my inner workings. The potions left me numb and foggy, which according to Professor Snape was a vast improvement from manic and rash. I could not think of a counter argument. I was not as happy as I remembered feeling before my mother died, but I was not as sad anymore. The potion was administered once every three months. After an initial first month of heavy observation Snape extended treatment once, twice, three times, insisting how pleased he was with my stability. I didn't ask him many questions—the conflict being that I took some odd satisfaction from the sense of accomplishment he displayed when I had no new scars and my grades slowly climbed. It was the most approaching of a watered-down joy that I had been to in years. While my mind occasionally wondered if more could be done I never wanted to jeopardize the feeling I got when his mouth would sneer slightly to one side during our brief check ups, almost smiling. If I thought about it too much though, I would become tired. Any scale of emotion tended to fatigue me. I remained cemented in a monotone existence.

That was until Voldemort returned. I somehow fell into a crowd with Harry Potter and his already tight-knit band of cohorts. The events surrounding the Dark Lord's return led me to unintentionally skip a check up, and for the first time the stone wall that I had always seen surrounding the Professor before my treatment began to rebuild itself. He was short and cold when I attempted to explain but of course he already knew the circumstances. There was more to this than I knew but I could never quite put my finger on it. Seeing him close himself off affected me and I felt it physically even after taking my 8th potion.

This was new. At first it was subdued, but as two months wore away it was as though I never quit feeling my heart hanging heavy within me. This was the start of a domino effect, an onslaught of long forgotten sensations. It took some time and a bit of effort to sort all of it out, it had been so long since I'd felt excitement that I wasn't sure if that was even what I felt when the gold galleon buzzed in my pocket calling me to another D.A. Meeting. Was it a flicker of pride that I experiences every time another member acknowledged me silently with a knowing nod in the Great Hall?

And even...hope. For the first time in five years hope. Funny how it sorts out for me, though I'd always had things backwards I suppose, that on the eve of potentially the biggest war wizard kind had ever faced—I was, for the first time in five years, feeling hope. What's more, I was using myself as a tool to press it upon other people. Harry and I shared a few chats around this time and I became convinced I'd reached him, for he too had suffered and though it is unfair to compare one's loss to another's, I believe for the first time I felt pity for someone other than myself. Where as I had mostly fought through my deprivation unnoticed, he carried a weight of judgment and responsibility on his shoulders throughout his.

I was pulling myself out but the time was ticking down to my next check-up. I still felt a sick, simmering guilt every time Snape caught me smiling in Potions, though this surely was progress? Had he intended for my treatment to last two years? Even the casual observer could note his general irritation with the student body—he should be eager to dismiss my case as a success on his part; a decoration signifying his skill and mastery—and the subject of his experiment to be regarded with no consequence.

This was the mentality that I convinced myself to embrace on the day of my next check up. With determination fueled by an overwhelming sense of self that I had so been lacking I entered his office with a smile on my face. He gave no acknowledgment of my entrance; hunched over his desk glancing at stacks of parchment that contained the months of notes on my "progress." I opened my mouth to speak but without looking up his voice cut through the words I hadn't yet uttered.

"Miss Lovegood, I am to assume that this session will be our last and that your failure to inform me of such a desire has resulted in the waste of several rare ingredients." He paused to motion to the familiar looking vial on the edge of his desk. "However, since you have well fulfilled your required healing time of six months and have been cooperative since forth, I am inclined to permit an end to your treatment. Since our next meeting would have been at the end of the term I shall, nevertheless wish to schedule a tentative check-up for the same time depending on any complications that may arise as a result of your body adjusting to the lack of medication. It is possible that you will return to balance with no side effects, in which case such a meeting may be bypassed."

Still standing, I watched as he spoke. His lips steadfastly curling around each word; his jaw locked tightly; his shoulders now rigid and his eyes averted. I cannot claim I have ever been particularly acute in reading people but it was often that I found myself voicing my interpretations of such without pause to consider otherwise and at that moment I experienced an epiphany. Before I could think better of it I found myself replying.

"Professor..." I began, "...This has become something more for you than a requirement of Dumbledore's, hasn't it? I mean...there's been an attachment forged here. My independence has startled you and now you're taking on this role of indifference because you feel such a bond is inappropriate. Something has stirred in you, this opportunity to silently care for something, for some one...to feel you have finally had a hand in inflicting wellness on someone instead of fear or anger. How is that wrong, sir? I don't dare intend this to seem one-sided...the entire reason I agreed to this treatment was because I sensed that somewhere in you, though I am not sure you realized it at the time. Why do you consider that a weakness Professor? Why are you ashamed as you sit here before me—dismissing me as though this has been nothing but meaningless routine for the past two years. Let me insist that I would not have returned with no protest had that been the case. I've felt little these years, but I have felt our mutual atonement as we were alone, together amongst the anxiety and disappointment. Most of all though, I have felt watched over, I have felt taken care of here. It is what lifted me out of my apathy and led me on the long but successful path toward reinvention. It may have been minimal, but your concern saved me and I must thank you. More so I hope that I will somehow be able to reciprocate. There is so much more to you that I wish to discover as you have unearthed the past from within me. I do hope that the occasional visit will be continually allowed."

I stopped there to take a breath that ended up feeling more like a gasp, as I was unsure I really wanted to gage his reaction. Truthfully, I too needed a moment of silence to absorb everything that had passed between us in my assertions. When he finally looked up at me I knew at once that would be the only response I would be granted and sensed his urgency for me to take leave. Still, there was no anger, no discomposure, and no retort. Impulsively, I stepped around the side of his desk, nearer to him and waited for him to turn to me. I placed both my hands on either side of his cold, sallow cheeks and bent to fix a small kiss on the end of his nose before turning on my heel and skipping out the door.

I will never forget; that was the first night I was able to produce a patronus.


End file.
